The Umbrella Academy
by BubblyMoocows
Summary: StanxKyle KylexWendy. Your sanity is gradually stealing away. Faint, fleeting ribbons are all that keep us here, Stan. I promise, we can go together someday. He'll cry for you, Stan. You don't want that. Just, stay a while longer. I promise. Kenny
1. Diphtheorem

Bubbly: Hello, all! This is my own little cliché "Stan cuts because he loves Kyle" fic. Yay! I just felt like fitting in!!!!

Okay!!

Disclaimed.

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**Chapter 1: Windsor Place**

There's something wrong with me. With us. But Kyle can't see it, yet.

Sometimes I think the part of the problem relates to religion. For example, stereotypical Jews do not have a concept of unconditional love. (see: Sheila Broflovski) The God of the Old Testament is judgmental, jealous and unyielding. He gets mad and He gets even.

The notion of turning the other cheek, the idea that faith is more important than deeds, these are distinctly, and _supposedly_, Christian concepts.

Some say that the difference between Catholic guilt and Jewish guilt is that the former emanates from the knowledge that we are all born already fallen, that there is nothing we can ever do to overcome the original sin; the latter hails from a sense that every one of us was created in God's image, and thus has the potential for perfection. So Catholic guilt is about impossibility, while Jewish guilt is about an abundance of possibility.

Figures. No wonder he's so...faultless.

Biting back a few distraught whines, I nip at the two silver studs in my lower lip, casting my distorted gaze to the acerbic, bullet gray of the sky above. The clouds balloon across the heavens in baleful platoons. The rain's about to start up, again.

I sift my pale fingers up into a sodden, black, system of tousled knots atop my head, tugging at it in slight frustration. _'Where the fuck is Kyle?' _

Igniting a damp, swollen cigarette, and sitting cross-legged upon a candy red, rain-lacquered park bench, I wait. He'll come for me, I know he will. I liberate a strained laugh. Because who leaves his best friend waiting out in the rain?

Who...?

I choke back a sigh.

Kyle will.

Because he loves Wendy. So, so much, he will say to me. He'll smile at me, and I'll cringe. And she'll be there, cradled in his arms, because they're a fit so ideal that it had to be made in heaven, they'll all say.

Yeah, that's what they'll all say.

I tip the cigarette upwards in my mouth, taking in a train of biting drags, and pulling up the arm of my yellow long-sleeve.

I know what I'm about to do, and it disgusts me. When did I get so fucking pathetic?

Fine, iced up belts of rain soak through my shirt, and my brow is furrows in concentration.

Here we go.

I pull the damp cigarette from my lips, and delicately set the glittery, smoldering head onto new territory. Its flowering, ruby tip hisses as it meets with my pale wrist, and I grimace.

I've never tried burns, before. My penknife is where my loyalties will lie. A network of incisions embroiders my forearm in a disorderly display, all pink and spidery and systematic in placement.

"Christ..."

I hastily pull the cigarette from its raw and angry wound and toss it away onto the pavement, tugging fitfully on hem of my sleeve.

I'm trembling, and my fingers pulse in light, transient spasms.

I sink down onto the park bench, liberating pearls of disconcerting whimpers. "C-Christ, Kyle..."

It's 1:34 in the morning, and it's raining. He's chosen Wendy, again.

Glitzy torrents of streetlight bathe the pavement in silvery ribbons, and the moon sleeps bright and sober in the stratosphere. Thick, cold, yellow carpets of dead leaves lay along the curbs, and the April sap clots in my veins.

I love him so much. So, so much, I will say to him. I will smile at him, and he will cringe.

"Stan?"

My head snaps up, and I meet a pair of brilliant, watery blue eyes, wide with heartache and panic.

Oh, Jesus.

**TBC...**

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Bubbly: Mehhhhh!!! I know, I haven't been here for a while, now! And, YESH!!! I am still working on LfAF!!!!

Thank you reviewers, by the way! I've been reading Les Misérables for a while now (Because the first is like my BIBLE and I just found the second volume!!!) and so I haven't had much time to crunch.

But, I know this story isn't very thought of much, and I didn't really plan it out as much as I should of, I know...

Oh well, please review!!


	2. That Boy

Bubbly: Ohmygod! So sorry for the late late late update! My computer's been a total ass, and deleted the older files, so I had to start anew! GRRRAAAAHHH!!!

Oh, well, I hope you like the second chappy. It's kind of 'grfha?', and all, I know, but I think I like it! This chappy contains a selfish Stan and a bit of Stenny! Oh, well. It ties in with the plot, but tis still a purely StanxKyle fic, yeah!

Disclaimed.

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1:36 AM.

It was Kenny.

Those eyes, a syrupy, glacial blue, gazed upon me with a morbid esteem and discomfort, praying for me to explain myself.

"Stan...?"

I bit my lip carefully, searching the iced up pavement for an answer. Would he even believe me if I told him anything? About Kyle? About my pathetic way of undertaking this shit? Yeah, he would.

He'd give me a crooked smile, and liberate those _**oh-so-sadistically-salty **_tears, and hold me close. And I'd feel that radiation, that sheer feeling of blistering, watery, white guilt bleeding into my system, searing my knotted lattice of nerves and yellowing my skin with new bruises.

I study the tactful blonde carefully, discerning his handsome, and almost feminine facial features.

His almost skin-tight jeans are torn at the knees, and his skate shoes are dirty with wear. The cowlick in his long, tousled hair glints a dusty gold in the light.

To cut a long story short, he's adorable. Kinda like a neglected soap bubble, really.

And that's my take on Kenny in a nutshell.

"Hey, Ken," I smile lightly, patting the seat beside me, gesturing for him to take a seat.

He nods hesitantly and complies, offering me a shy smile.

We're just sitting there, on the park bench, as though waiting for something.

He gazes out onto the silvery, blue belt of a horizon, beads of rain clinging to his long, dark lashes. He finally turns my way. "Can I...?"

I blink and nod, gazing into his eyes with a tired curiosity.

He smiles up at me reassuringly.

He quietly takes my forearm into his hands, smoothing his guitar-calloused fingertips along a spidery spill of methodical incisions. He makes a few soft, affectionate 'clicks' in the back of his throat, and it makes me smile sleepily. I'm such a fuckin' weirdo.

"Stan..."

I can feel him pulling up the hood of my jacket and my head falls upon his shoulder. I feel as he shifts a bit, muttering a few soft words and placing a sympathetic kiss in my hair.

"Ya sleepy?"

"Mrrgh..."

He laughs, and I actually smile. He's really too sweet for his own good. It almost makes my teeth ache just thinking about it.

I raise my head for a brief moment and place a mild kiss to his temple. He blushes, and I smile against his cheek. I pull him up against me almost roughly, emitting a quiet sigh.

I'm kinda rough, but I don't think Kenny minds. His eyes are closed and he's purring in satisfaction against my shoulder, but my thoughts stray from the neglected blonde.

I glance down at my friend. "Ken?" He hums out quietly in reply. "Did you sleep with him tonight?"

The question throws him off balance, and it's obvious to what the answer is.

"What?"

"Because I don't think--"

His face scrunches up in a pained uncertainty. "Shut up, Stan!"

He sits up, stumbling over his words. His seltzer blue eyes are wide with panic and disgrace,

and he gets up to leave. I take his hand, and he fixes his pained and disoriented gaze upon me.

"He respects me, Stan."

I pull him back down to my level, wrapping my arms tightly about his slight waist. I've just realized that we're both now crying almost hysterically. He's clinging to me like I might make a run for it, and I'm no different.

Kenny's naive. He's almost childlike, in a way. He sleeps with so many different people, men and women, and he's still a virgin in everyone's eyes. He gets anxious when Cartman hugs him; excited when Kyle takes his hand.

A cold, cherry pop-tart makes him happy; a pair of old gloves make him cry.

I think I love him almost as much as I love Kyle. Not just like a brother, or a friend, either.

And it's breaking my heart.

"He's almost thirty, Kenny!" I whisper this, and my tone sounds high and harsh, like an bewildered school girl.

I brush the few tears from his pale, damp cheek, and smile sympathetically, despite the tears. He's riding a thirty year old man like the bike he never had, and he thinks he's in love. I might just have to kill that old bastard for this.

Jesus Christ...

How'd we even up this way? The four of us?

I think my world is failing. Comatose. To see so many tatters even in the brand new blue of the morning, to the dew drops, those false, spurious pearls, and the frost, that cut-rate, contemptible glitz...So many spots on the sun, so many foxholes in the moon.

I need a new asylum. A promise.

I hold my sore forearm up into the streetlight, a silvery cord outlining it's silhouette.

Kyle? Or Kenny?

The boy I've loved since forever, the one who turns the very blood in my veins to cloying honey, my best friend?

Or the boy with the soft-hearted smile, the one who makes my heart swell, the one I could have _right now_?

I sigh jadedly.

"I love you, Ken."

And I've chosen.

I'm getting fucked up in my own silence, and it's made me selfish.

Kudos to Kyle on this one.

_I'm a movement by myself, but I'm a force when we're together. I'm all good just by myself, but baby, you, you make me better. _

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Bubbly: Please don't kill me, gahs! I know that was too angst-o-shitty-rama, but bear with meh! I totally wanted to do something like this, so...yeah. okay. Dedicated to my favorite authors on FanFiction! You know who you are!!


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